


a parlor trick called survival

by maruja



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Stalker Bucky Barnes, i'm not sure this was a good idea but here we go, recovery fic, the temptation was too great
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maruja/pseuds/maruja
Summary: The body is a garment.It is burning.Her hands are empty.My hands are in her hands.We are on fire.Where am I?–Far From Rome, Vahni Capildeohe begins anew, and she is with him, every step of the way.





	1. prelude

**Author's Note:**

> i bit the bullet and wrote fic after almost 10 years of avoiding it. yay? 
> 
> self-beta'd, so any mistakes are probably caused by my sleep-deprived brain being a dweeb.

It all blurred together, rivers and roads and time.

Time, of course, always seemed to do that after a while.

The Asset had stolen a car, kept to the back streets as best he could whilst circling around Maryland for a few days, dumping and acquiring vehicles as he thought safe. He had to be fast and discreet to avoid capture. Everyone was a threat. He had no way of knowing who was a danger and who was not.

After the helicarriers had fallen, it would only have been a matter of time before the city got sectioned off, after all, hounds from the scattered remains of both HYDRA and SHIELD chasing after him in a desperate bid for control. Captain America— _no, Steve, his name is Steve_ – he, too, would most likely be up on his feet in no time, adrenaline pumping as he tried to find the Asset before anyone else could take him away.

He wasn’t sure why he knew this to be true – only that it was. In the breaks that he took from driving, the Asset would get flashes of memories: blonde hair. A slight, sickly frame. Deep, rumbling laughter, from his person and from the people around him both. The metallic scent of blood in the air. Ceaseless gunfire and shouting, deafening in its intensity.

Falling, falling, falling.

It all seemed too real, as though if he’d closed his eyes for just enough he would open them to a different time, to a different him, unburdened by blood on his hands. In this fantasy he was whole, unmarred by metal. Untainted by the dark reaches of an insidious organisation that deemed fit to destroy anything and everything in its path. 

The past seventy years would prove otherwise, however, and the idea of the Asset having been anything more than a soldier under HYDRA’s control seemed too far of a stretch.

_But he called me Bucky._

His grip on the wheel tightened at the thought, the plastic under his left hand cracking. It was hard to distinguish what was true and what was not, years of programming leaving him a clean slate, ready to comply.

Slates could never be fully clean, as he would come to know in the coming days. Try as one might to erase the past, there remained permanent marks. Perhaps not remembered in exact detail, but remembered enough to understand that there was something more than the Asset, that there was more to his life than this.

Which then begged the question: who was he?

* * *

When she was a child, she’d come upon an injured dog, lying on the side of the road. Road kill, almost. She remembered crying, remembered begging for her father to help her save it, not letting up until he’d finally given in and taken the mutt to a vet at the behest of his daughter.

She remembered, too, how ecstatic she was to learn that it would survive, how the tears came once more, unbidden. Relief, this time. Soft little arms cradled the dog as gently as she possibly could, and her father joked in the coming weeks of its recovery that it was her willpower, her unbridled and seemingly unending care, that had brought this dog back from almost-death, and nothing else.

Perhaps there was some truth to that.

Years later, Ada remained unchanging in spirit. A light would shine in her that could never be replicated –– and yet she thinks herself average, at best. Boring, even, with nothing much to offer aside from small talk and a soothing presence.

She was just an ordinary citizen going about her life in the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps. If given a few more years, perhaps she would’ve gone on to get a doctorate. Or maybe she would’ve settled down with some cookie cutter husband and moved to the suburbs. Become a housewife with the white picket fence, have children who run amok in the backyard more often than not. Perhaps even both.

She had options. Life was good, if trying, at times, but that was life. What mattered most was this, however: the whole world was open to her, and she needed only to reach out and take what she wanted, if she wanted.

And oh, this girl, whose heart was perhaps too big for her body, whose smile was bright and warm –– there was no surprise that she would ignore all of these choices, safe and normal as they were, and end up choosing to play a part in the recovery of a lost soul, going down the path of no return without so much as a hesitating glance to the life she would leave behind.

How kind.

How reckless.


	2. and suddenly, spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the hungry ex-assassin and the girl with a heart of gold meet for the first time.

He was bone-tired. Run ragged and hyper-aware, he barely slept in his downtime. The rooftops in which he’d spent his nights were blocked off to public access, yes, but they were too windy by far for any solid rest to occur, and the slightest foreign sound would put him on high alert, scanning the area for danger before giving up and stealing a new car for the night, any chance of sleeping having dwindled down to zero.

For a week, he carried on, travelling haphazardly through sleepy towns and bustling cities alike before doubling back to D.C. to slip into the Smithsonian. There had been an exhibit, about the war, about his target. It was a chance to see, to understand -- and there, there he found the truth of his identity.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. _Bucky_ , he'd been called. He was a sergeant in the war, had been in the Howling Commandos with Steve Rogers before he fell from a train, before he was declared missing in action.

His target was telling the truth.

He didn't remember any of it. Just snapshots of moments he couldn't piece together, fragments of memories he couldn't make sense of. It was overwhelming, consuming his mind enough to make his drive out of the city a blip in his consciousness. He was venturing on distracted on his way to New York, to Brooklyn.

A shot in the dark, yes. But if he really was this so-called Bucky, then maybe … maybe returning to where he’d come from all those years ago would spark something. Maybe it would become the beginning of his return to humanity.

If he had any of it left, anyway.

* * *

There was a gnawing pain in his gut. It was familiar, of course –- he’d been hungry before.

It had been persistent in his odd seventy years under captivity. They had never given him enough food to satisfy when he was awake, perhaps serving as a safety measure of sorts. It was always a touch never enough, as though his raw hunger would give him a stronger edge above his targets. He never complained.

Why would he, when any dissent from him would earn him a trip to the chair?

No, no. He chose to pick his battles, on the days he remembered enough to fight. But even then it always ended up the same for him -- plunged into the freezing cold, the slowly dulling ache from the wipe fading into nothingness as he lost consciousness.

Now, though. He was no longer under their control. He was cold and injured, yes, left to lick his wounds in the aftermath, but there were no longer any orders to fulfill, especially not after he'd failed his mission in D.C. He was free, for the most part.

It didn't feel like he was, though, when he was running from ghosts day after day. It was all he could do to keep looking behind him in fear of pursuit. The threat of the chair, of the wipe, was too much to bear.

He was free, but he wasn't safe. And therein lied the problem.

It took him a while to come out of the shadows. He’d heard one of the homeless men talking about Lighthouse Hall, how they gave food away for free without asking questions, without asking for payment. It was too good to be true, he thought, but between having to steal food from distracted store owners and sleeping in abandoned buildings or the streets each night, the idea of something warm and homemade made him think twice about brushing it off so quickly.

A couple of days had passed of him taking watch of this so called soup kitchen before he’d deemed it safe. It was impossible that HYDRA was lurking in this place, if only because it was too altruistic and unsophisticated for their purposes. Then again, it could all be a front –– but he was hungry, and his instincts were suffering for it. The risk was not high enough for him to scrap the idea, but still significant enough that he hung back until the crowds thinned before slipping inside.

* * *

 

“ _Aray!_ ” The cry of pain left her lips, almost like a shout, and she recoiled her stinging hand from the too hot handle of the pot. Her voice was loud enough to attract the worry of several of the volunteers, at least a dozen questioning eyes leading her to explain: “I forgot how hot the pots were –– sorry, sorry, I’m fine!”

The pink that tinged her cheeks was to be expected; such, as well, was the light ribbing she received from her peers before they all went back to their tasks. Her supervisor Julie, on the other hand, stopped by her spot, watching her gingerly blow on her overheated fingers with concern.

“You sure you’re fine, Ada? We have some burn ointment in the first aid kit, if you need it.”

“Don’t need it. Besides, people are coming soon and I’d rather get everything set up now. I’ll worry about it later if it still hurts.” Ada waved it off, sheepish grin on her face. That seemed to placate Julie, and she moved on, bustling about to make sure the volunteers would be ready for the crowd –– and what a crowd it was, men and women shuffling into the hall, all hungry and needing some form of sustenance that they would strive to provide.

It was like this once a week for Adelaide Bennet. Lighthouse Hall, the soup kitchen in which she volunteered at, was one of the busiest in New York, and they always had a need for new hands for help. That her schedule was flexible enough for her to stand in on some days meant that she was an almost regular presence here, seen in the way she would greet people approaching her with their names, familiar and friendly in her tone.

“Good evening, Heath! Got chicken and veg soup for you today –– there you go –– just go straight to Jason for your drink, sweetheart.

“Hey, Tilly. Did you want another bowl for Jess? Grab this one, would you?”

And so it went. A heartfelt greeting, the handing over of sustenance to hungry hands. Good work, if a tad tiring. By the time most of the people had left, her arms and shoulders were sore, sweat prickling the back of her neck from her efforts. Still, it had been a good shift –– though there remained a little bit of soup left at the bottom of her pot. Ada stirred it absent-mindedly, thinking to start moving it into the backroom for storage when a man appeared in front of her.

He was tall –– about six feet, perhaps –– that she had to look up just the slightest in order to catch his eyes, which were partially hidden by his baseball cap. Dark circles hung right below them, as though he’d had one too many sleepless nights. The man practically emanated exhaustion, and dressed in ill-fitting clothes in differing shades of black and grey, had looked like some of the people who’d come here for the first time: uncomfortable, and ready to leave at the slightest sign of trouble.

That wouldn’t do. Ada knew he was here for a reason. He was hungry, and if they could help, then trying to make him feel at ease would maybe make him realise that he was welcome here.

“Hey there. Did you want some soup?” The brunette tilted her head, eyes soft and trained on his as she raised the question. At the sound of her voice, he gave no indication of surprise -- only the fractional widening of his eyes betrayed his reaction. Even then, it took him a moment to answer, brow furrowed as though she’d asked him to solve a complex problem in five seconds flat. His wide shoulders lifted just the slightest, a breath, perhaps, caught in his throat.

Then, finally, blue eyes rose to meet brown:

“Yes.”

“Great!” Her smile came, bright as can be and fully directed at him. She was too focused on her task to notice him staring, as though he’d witnessed an impossible thing, gone too soon from his sight. Perhaps he’d just imagined it, sleep-addled brain malfunctioning.

Scooping up a hefty serve onto a bowl, she added a little bit more than the usual before handing it to the man in front of her. The dinner rush was over, anyway, and they could afford her giving out a tad extra to one newcomer. “We’ve got roast chicken subs tonight, and I think Hank’s got a few more left, so if you wanted some of that, just scoot on over to the guy with the big hair. Can’t miss him. If you want more of the soup, just come back to me, okay?”

His nod is all she saw before he turned, back stiff as he followed her directions. Thinking nothing of the encounter, Ada tidied up her station, waiting for him to return for seconds, just in case. When it became apparent by his slipping out of the hall that he would not come back for the rest of her shift, she grabbed her pot and deposited it in the kitchen, pouring out the remains of her soup into a few containers. Around her, the kitchen crew rushed past as they cleaned and readied for the morning, and it was all she could do to duck out of people’s way as they brought over heavy pots and pans to the dishwasher.

“I’m surprised there’s any left. Did Jeff not come in today to grab the rest?” Maxine called over her shoulder, curly blonde hair swaying from her ponytail with the movement. She was on dish duty today, and normally, Ada would have waited for her to finish her shift, after which they would go out for a late dinner, but –– work awaited her at home, and she really needed to submit this copy before the deadline.

“No, I didn’t see him, actually. Maybe he’s running a little late. Julie will take care of it when he comes over, anyway, so I’m not too worried.” Ada put the soup in the walk-in, bumping her hip with Maxine’s for a moment to catch the blonde’s attention. “Rain check on dinner tonight, okay? Get Jason to walk you, text me when you’re home. I’ll see you next week.”

With that, she slipped out, leaving behind the noise of the kitchen for the relative quiet of the locker room, humming under her breath as she got readied to go home.

* * *

The night seemed endless as the Asset had found himself seated at the bottom of the stairs to the hall, head down and shoulders hunched. Had this been a mistake? Should he not have come?

It had been a risk not worth taking, and yet his satiated stomach said otherwise. 

The food had been hot, a welcome respite for the chill that had overtaken him that night. It was a luxury he’d long forgotten the feeling of, and whilst he could survive without eating for days at a time, it was taking far longer than one would expect, remembering that he needed food on a regular basis in order to sustain himself.

He didn’t need to think about that, before. They’d given him scraps of food. The promise of sleep-- however forced-- always lingered around the corner, and he’d attempted the upkeep of his hygiene at the behest of his handlers, if they so remembered, but in truth, they required no autonomy from him outside of missions. He was an asset, nothing more. Only humans needed to eat, to sleep, to care for their fragile bodies.

Weapons were not fragile, and so that did not apply to him.

A gloved leather hand came up to his temples, smoothing away the ache that threatened to grow stronger. Memories always seemed to hurt with each recollection, and it was all he could do to weather through them, worse for wear after each barrage.

The sound of steady, albeit venturing on loud, footfalls reached his ears. Female, if his hunch was right, an absent-minded tune playing under her breath whilst she opened the heavy wood doors and left the building, her bag swaying just the slightest on her shoulder as she bound down the steps.

_She smells like flowers._

He wasn’t sure where that had come from. Just a passing thought of little consequence, unnecessary but there. He kept his head down, waiting for her to carry on without much incident.

She surprised him, however, slowing to a stop in front of him. Her scent was stronger than it had been than in the passing breeze. This time, he looked up in silent question. He wanted to ask, _what do you want?_ in as sharp and biting a voice he could give, to drive her away, but the words die in his throat at the sight of her slow-coming smile.

Rose-tinted lips curled upward, warm eyes crinkling at the corners as her greeting. It was the woman from before, the overly-friendly one who talked too much when he’d walked up to her for food. She was dressed differently now, no longer donning the pastel yellow shirt with the text _lighthouse staff_ printed upon it. Rather, she wore a navy blouse under a beige cardigan, prim and proper, paired with black trousers. Her long brunette locks were no longer in a bun, either, falling into messy waves onto her shoulders -- perhaps why her fragrance was stronger now?

“You have a good night, yeah?”

He didn’t hear it well before, what with the background noise of the hall, but her voice was clear. Melodic, almost. He could hear the delight in her lilt, as though she was genuinely happy to have come across him.

What a strange thought. She’d smiled just the same earlier, before she’d given him food.

It didn’t feel right. Weapons didn’t deserve kind looks and smiles. 

She seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from him, but the silence stretched past acceptable and she shrugged, almost unbothered. The most he could do was stare at her, trying to comprehend, and no words formed themselves on his tongue. Turning to leave, she tossed a “see you around!” at him before walking away, the sound of her footsteps getting farther and farther from him until it was almost indiscernible to his ears.

Almost.

He could have let it go. He should have. But the softness in her features, the gentle curve to her lips was foreign, unnatural enough to him to leave an imprint in his mind.

It felt unreal. Like something from a far-off fantasy his wrecked mind would’ve conjured up in an attempt to disassociate from an imminent wipe. It was hard to believe people could be like this, still, not when all his waking memories were of the cold, of indescribable pain. He couldn’t help but be suspicious of her intentions.

She had to be an agent. HYDRA, SHIELD. It didn’t matter which, only that she was dangerous, too. If he watched her for long enough, he’d know for sure. She would pull a gun from her person, or make contact with a familiar agent –– _something_.

Because it wasn’t real. That smile ... It seemed like it was, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. The ghosts of his past whispered endlessly in his ear, casting doubt like a dark shadow upon everything around him. Years of conditioning have made him this way -- and the hope that had flickered to life in his chest begun to dim into an almost dying ember at the remembrance of the proof that there was no goodness left in this godforsaken world.

_It couldn’t be real._

Which is why he rose to his feet, animalistic in the fluidity of his movements. Unlike the woman’s footsteps, his feet hit the pavement, one in front of the other, without so much as a sound. His stride was bigger, pace faster –– yet he kept to the shadows, keeping the brunette in sight on the way home.

He had to make sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-beta'd, as always. mistakes are mine. comments would be lovely, and give me a bit of a boost to continue this fledgling of a story. 
> 
> translations:
> 
> Aray - Tagalog, best translated as 'ouch.'


	3. independence // autonomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly a ton of exposition in this one, just to flesh out both of their sides and set the scene for the next one. 
> 
> honestly, i'm very tempted to make this a slow-burn, but my impatient ass would probably end up not following through with that plan, so we'll see how this goes for now.

Blissfully unaware of the shadow that lurked not too far behind her, Ada walked home, pace relatively brisk. Time was at the forefront of her mind, what with the deadline looming over her shoulder, hovering too close for comfort. The thirty minutes it took to finally arrive at her destination would be thirty minutes she could have spent slaving away at her laptop, but her distaste for needless spending meant that she outright refused the idea of hailing a cab instead. It would have been efficient, maybe, but outright unnecessary.

That the weather was warm enough meant that she could actually enjoy her trek home, instead of a winter chill relentlessly nipping at her skin and making her breath puff up in front of her face. Around her, the city carried on, people passing her by on journeys of their own, cars speeding past and honking their horns at pedestrians and vehicles alike. See, New York was loud. It was crowded.

It was also home.

Ada couldn’t find it in herself to dislike the nonstop activity -- there was always something happening, some sort of ruckus somewhere nearby that she could hear when she would turn in for the night. Living alone had its benefits, of course -- but it also made for a kind of loneliness that struck at the most inopportune of times, a kind that would take root in her chest and take days, if not weeks to shake.

Her phone vibrating in her bag was a welcome distraction from the thought, and she fumbled to answer the call, voice far too chipper for someone out of breath in her haste to return home.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Della, dear. Are you outside? I hear cars,” Thomas Bennet’s voice sounded tinny from her phone, weathered tone warm as he uttered her childhood nickname. In the background, she could hear water running on his end, and the murmur of the television.

“Yeah, Dad. Just walking home. Almost there though, just another block away. How have you been?” she said, eyes on the sidewalk for a moment as she stepped over a pothole. His familiar voice made her shoulders loosen just the slightest -- calls with her father always seemed to calm her somewhat, even if there didn’t seem to be anything to calm her from.

“Good, good. Linda and I just finished dinner. She made risotto, and I remembered how much you liked that the last time you were here,” his almost-raspy voice turned teasing, and she could just see his green eyes, the skin around them creased by age, gleam with mirth, as he geared up for the light-hearted jab he’d been planning to deliver from the start: “And then, I remembered that it’s been a year and then some since my daughter came to visit. So I figured I’d give her a ring and see what she thought of that...”

The call was cutting out just a tad. It was an old model, one due for an upgrade in a month, and so she was waiting to replace it, even if it meant a lot of dropped calls and problematic connections in the meantime. It meant, too, that some words were muffled, but not enough that she wouldn’t understand the gist of what he had been saying.

“Christ,” she pulled a face, though it was one that he wouldn’t be able to see from miles and miles away. The stab of guilt was rightly inflicted -- she _had_ been avoiding all conversations about her coming to California, even for just a few days, diverting to safer topics like how his next project was going, or how her workload has been. “Just went straight for the jugular this time, didn’t you?”

His answering laugh was infectious, the corner of her lip curling in shared amusement as she climbed up the steps of her apartment building. The door creaked upon her pushing it open, the light above flickering sporadically. The place was old and dilapidated, and the building’s elevator never seemed to work -- that, or her land lord just never saw to its repair, which wouldn’t be a surprise. Not that she was complaining. It came a lot cheaper than other apartments in her area, and had running hot water. She’d take what she could get as long as there was a non-leaking  roof above her head.

“Got you to actually talk to me about it, didn’t it?” he’d said, once his chortling had faded. “So what’s the problem, Della? I miss my kid, you know.”

What _was_ the problem?

It wasn’t a matter about money, per se. Heaven knew her father would be all too happy to drop the needed funds in her account just for the chance to spend time with his only daughter. For an architect as well established as him, money wouldn’t be an issue. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her stepmother, either. Linda was nice enough, if a bit hard to connect to, but that could be chalked up to the fact that they’d married when she was away in college and she hadn’t had the chance to know her better. That she worked as a freelance lexicographer meant she could, technically, take her work with her if she so chose, and she could ask for time off from volunteering, but she didn’t really want to.

No, she thought, bounding up the staircase to her floor. As much as she missed her father and her childhood home, there was no innate and pressing need in her to return. She liked her life here well enough, as lonely as it could sometimes be. Going back to her father’s home for a visit meant going back to the dynamics of her childhood -- and as much as she loved her dad, the idea of slowly slipping back into the role of the daughter didn’t seem all that appealing, especially when she’d been pulling off this adult life well enough.

The thoughtful noise she made at the back of her throat was all she could respond with, caused by both his question and her rummaging through her bag for her keys. It was a bit of a struggle, considering she was still walking up the stairs and jostling the weathered strap with each step. That, along with her father’s voice taking up her attention, made her miss the silent footsteps behind her, the sliding of smooth metal against rusted railing.

“I’m assuming by your lack of an answer that there _is_ a problem, but you just don’t want to talk about it. Or, there isn’t, and you’re just too busy to come home.” It was unmistakeable, the sadness in his voice. Her eyes closed, a sigh in her chest threatening to come loose. It was never a nice feeling, knowing she’d disappointed him, but ... Instead of backtracking, she gripped the railing she’d been holding onto with a bit more force before letting go, steps echoing as she climbed to the third floor.

“I’m sorry, Dad. Everything’s just going on all at the same time…” A partial lie. “But I _could_ maybe -- and this is a big maybe, okay -- come home for the holidays, which I know is ages away, but I could try for then,” her chest was tight, lungs venturing on breathless from the exertion, but she’d finally found herself on her floor, which meant that her apartment (and, more importantly, her couch) was only a few steps away.

_Man, I really need to exercise more._

“Now, now, you know what I’d say to that, Della…” Thomas’ voice pulled her from her thoughts.

She snorted, keychains clinking together as she unlocked her door and entered her apartment.  A hand reached back to flick the light switch, bathing the room with light and making her blink as her sight adjusted.

Despite its faded beige and cream wallpaper and mismatched furniture courtesy of craigslist and IKEA, the little touches -- a thick, chocolate brown rug on the floor, cutesy throws and some small knick-knacks adorning empty spaces -- it looked lived-in. Warm. She’d done the best the could to make it her own space, after all.

Ada tossed her keys in a small glass bowl on the kitchen counter before crumpling onto the sofa in relief, feet propping up onto the coffee table in front of it. “If you pull a Yoda reference on me, I swear --”

“ _Do or do not, there is no try._ I think Yoda got that one dead on.” She could hear a woman’s laughter in the background, one that she knew belonged to Linda. Her ladylike giggles mixed with her father’s deep rumble, and against Ada’s will, she ended up grinning, too.

“Oh no, I’m definitely hanging up on you now,” she said, but her amusement was clear. A glance at the clock, however, told her it would be a good idea to wrap up quickly. Reaching out to grab her laptop from the armchair beside her, she booted it up, shaking her head good-naturedly at her father’s antics.

“No, hey, I’m trying to be the cool dad here, the least you can do is give me some sort of encouragement, young lady!”

“Mm. Yes. Very good, Dad. Top marks,” she said, in as deadpan a voice as possible, but it was hard to disguise the mirth she felt. “Seriously though, I do have to go. I’ve got to look over some articles and proofread them by midnight, and I haven’t even gotten to the midpoint yet. I’ll call you sometime this week, okay?”

“Alright. Go earn a living, then, don’t let your old man keep you. Love you, Della,” he said.

“Okay. Say hi to Linda for me. Miss you loads, and I love you too!”

Ending the call, she tossed the phone to her side, getting to work.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

He’d found himself on the rooftop of the apartment complex right across the street from hers, wind picking up just the slightest due to the altitude. It wasn’t necessarily the best of views, but it would do, considering she was only sitting on her couch, partially exposed by the window beside her. Tonight he would only keep watch, and so the distance was perfectly adequate.

In any case, he’d heard enough of her conversation before she’d entered her apartment to shed ample doubt on his suspicions on the nature of her character -- at best, she’d seemed like just an average woman just going about her night. At worst, she was exceptionally good at keeping whatever cover she’d been provided. That she got winded so easily just going up the stairs, however, made him think twice about her possibly being a field agent -- HYDRA, even SHIELD, trained their people better than that, at the very least. And whilst it had been a couple of hours since she’d sat herself down to type on her laptop, rubbing her head in frustration every half hour, he didn’t think that her head lolling about every so often as she slipped into a light sleep only to wake herself up moments before her forehead hit her screen was an easy feat to fake, either.

Suddenly -- movement. He squinted, hands brushing errant hair away from his face as he tried to make out what she was doing. Stretching, it seemed like, limbs splaying wide over the cushions for a moment like a cat. The woman shut her laptop, finally, and hopped off of the couch, her right hand coming up to tousle even more her already disheveled locks. She moved away from the window, presumably to go to bed. She turned the lights off, darkness swallowing the room quickly. He could only just make out her movement into a different room by the way the streetlights shone into her apartment, and then she was gone from his line of sight.

He was stumped. Was it true, then? Was she just normal? The very thought seemed strange. Everyone had an agenda, and everyone was out to trample on those in the way of that. It was how things worked. Or, at least, it had been for the lifetime he remembered...

Memories of a back alley and the sounds of punches landing on frail bones flooded his thoughts, filled his ears. He shook his head in an attempt to get them out, unwilling to decipher wordless moments that would more than likely keep him up for the night without so much as a definitive resolution.

He was tired, and it was time to rest. So that is what he did, sitting himself down and leaning his head back on the door to the rooftop, sleep coming to him in its lightest form.

* * *

The thing Ada hated most about mornings, she thought, was the fact that she would awaken at 5 AM, on the dot, without so much as an alarm clock to rouse her from slumber. This happened no matter how little sleep she’d had the night before, and it would be in the afternoon before her eyes would start to droop again, overworked. Otherwise, she would be awake, unable to rest until her bed beckoned for her to come lay down.

The upside of this, of course, was that when she was asleep, there would be very little that could jostle her awake apart from, say, someone pushing her off of bed. That wasn’t a problem she’d had in years, though, seeing as she lived alone, meaning that she’d had very few interrupted moments.

Now, however, she lay in bed, rubbing the sand from her eyes as she took stock of what she had to do for the day. Mornings were calm, and while the rest of the city was in the process of shaking off the events of the night before to start anew, she had a few peaceful moments to herself.

Sliding out of bed, she stretched, stiff joints creaking just the slightest as she slipped into the living room, heading for the kitchen to make some coffee. Lots of milk and one sweetener stirred into the bitter liquid later, she gravitated toward the window, steaming mug in hand. Perhaps not the best idea, putting herself on possible display to the street in just her ratty shirt and pyjama shorts, but she rationalised it with the fact that no one had ever looked up or into her apartment in the times that she’d stood there, so there was no harm in it.

There was nothing much to look at, either, so it wasn’t as though there was anything to miss.

In the street below, she could see Mrs Patel sweeping her shopfront, flowers placed in full display by the glass windows. The shock of colour drew the eye to an otherwise bland street, buildings with ill-maintained facades looming over the sidewalk. Ada made a mental note to drop by and pick up some sunflowers -- both to check up on the old lady and to bring back a bit of cheer to her own place. Amy, her downstairs neighbour, was coming home from her shift at the hospital, too -- nurse’s scrubs partially covered by an olive green jacket and a curtain of wavy black hair. She could just see the tiredness emanate off of her friend in waves.

It was mostly deserted, with a straggler or two dragging themselves home from a party, or work, or wherever -- and she followed one such figure with her gaze, sipping her coffee as she kept her eyes on him for the mere reason that he’d inexplicably drawn her eye. Ada could only see the back of his head, dark, brown hair underneath a baseball cap grazing the tops of his wide shoulders, and it should be familiar, it should -- but New York is filled with people who look alike but are worlds different, and she had not had enough caffeine in her system yet to even think of the fact that she’d seen that broad back once before, slipping out of the hall without so much as a whisper after handing him a bowl of soup.

Instead, he rounded the corner and vanished from her sight, severing the connection she could have made, had she just been paying closer attention. Ada left her post by the window after a few minutes, unbothered. The tall, well-built man walking down the street was forgotten easily as she began to make her first meal for the day.

* * *

He’d fallen asleep on the rooftop and left before most people began to litter the streets, not wanting to think about the night before, but seemingly unable to stop his mind from dwelling on it. On her. It felt unreal, that he would stumble across someone like that and not have it be a trick, a trap. But he’d checked it out for himself, kept watch until he couldn’t see her anymore, and there didn’t seem to be anything dark to reveal. She was just an ordinary girl who volunteered at the soup kitchen, and nothing more.

That she’d smiled at him so easily, however, like it was nothing at all, and that she’d talked to him with such warmth in her tone, without fear or contempt -- told of a different story. It made a deep mark on him, one that he couldn’t erase no matter how hard he tried, because that little moment was outright kindness in the face of his danger, even though she didn’t know it. He didn’t think he deserved any of that, considering what he’d done for his handlers, nor did he think he would ever have the privilege of experiencing it for himself, not without it being some sort of ploy to destroy him further.

What was left of him, anyway.

But he was out of HYDRA’s hands, and this was real. Somehow.

She was real.

Just to be sure, of course, he’d check again. Come back to the hall in the coming days and keep watch for her presence, the reassurance that kindness still existed somewhere in this world, even for weapons like him.

There would be no harm in that, right?

* * *

It had been three days and still no sign of her. He knew where she lived, of course, but in the hall is where he’d seen her up close, and so there he went to look for her. That she wasn’t there made the doubt surface again, but he refused to entertain it, instead searching for ways to occupy his time now that he’d confirmed she wouldn’t be in his sights tonight.

He had hope, and that rarely happened nowadays. Just because she wasn't there for the night didn't mean that their exchange hadn't happened, didn't mean that she wasn't real.

No, he had to distract himself.

A plan slowly formed in his mind. Another car stolen, he thought on it on the way to his destination, brow furrowed.

Snatching necessities off of store shelves grew old extremely quickly, after almost two weeks of trying his hardest to avoid exposure. It was an unnecessary risk he didn’t want to have to guard against, considering everyone and their mother had mobile phones and one call to the cops at the sight of something gone awry would have him running without so much as a backwards glance.

He didn’t want to run just yet, was the thing. He wanted to stay in New York. Near Brooklyn. It felt paramount to understanding the man he’d been before becoming the Asset that he remain here, as though the location would hold some sort of key that would unlock the murky depths of his past. So far, he hadn’t had much luck -- he would get episodes, sometimes, rushes of stimuli that never fully made sense to his already addled mind. It took considerable effort to calm himself down when he’d worked himself up over those, but it felt right to stay here for a while, to lurk the borough and walk the steps he’d apparently walked before, all those years ago.

But the stealing had to stop. He’d done worse things in the past, of course -- hell, they’d told him that he helped shape the century, and he had very little doubt that HYDRA had made him do just that with no regard for the morality of it all. There was very little he could do to clean the blood already on his hands, but perhaps, he thought, it would be good for him to slowly start towards a more upright path. Stop stealing from unsuspecting shopkeepers, maybe.

Then again, his motivation was mostly that it was getting annoying, sneaking into stores at night and grabbing for things in the dark. Annoying and inefficient. The idea of a warm place -- just a room would do, even -- instead of the cold streets of the city at night seemed like a dream, too. But to be able to address those needs he would need money, and that was something he had no idea how to acquire in this time period.

Or, well. That was not quite the truth. He knew where he could get it. In fact, he was staring at the building at the moment, gloved hand gripping the steering wheel tight as he parked near it. The structure seemed innocuous, grey paint peeling from the cumulative forces of both rain and heat, much like all the other buildings on this street. Nothing about it made it stand out.

But he knew better. In the basement level of this place lay HYDRA’s safe house in Hempstead, one he’d been brought to a few times as part of his missions. He could remember the layout, mostly -- it was a small one, with a lab and an armory, as well as an office that might hold a safe or two.

More importantly, he knew how to get in.

But he didn’t know how many agents were in there, if there were any at all. If there was someone who knew him, his words, and how to get him to comply. Aside from the two rifles and a handgun that he’d snatched off of one of the goons’ unconscious bodies back in D.C., all he had was his knife to defend against that.

And his arm, of course, but that was a given.

He weighed the risks for a moment, careful and measured in his assessment. Only the higher-ups would know how to control him. Lower-level agents knew nothing and were expected to follow his orders unless told otherwise, and while the latter were too many to count, the former had the luxury of more extravagant safe houses. If he could just break into the armoury first, he would be get out with little to no injuries -- otherwise, his arm would have to do the heavy lifting, as it almost always ended up doing.

There would be items of high-value somewhere in there, he knew. It would be better to find cash, of course, if only to save himself the trouble, but he could pawn off jewellery easily, either way. It didn’t matter to him, really.

The deep sigh that escaped him was the only sound he made in the next hours as he awaited for midnight to strike and for the right time to slip into an all too-familiar scene. He was used to this, being stationary for too long periods of time, waiting for targets to expose themselves so he could dispose of them with his rifle. It was almost customary, and so the lack of anything to do in the meantime didn’t bother him as much.

Instead, he focused on reconciling the fact that he was putting _himself_ on a mission instead of following someone’s orders, and found that a part of him derived an extreme sense of satisfaction at the thought.

He may just be a weapon, yes, but maybe, just maybe, if he could pull this off, he could prove to himself that he was his own. That he could do things for himself, and strike back at the organisation that used him for their own ends.

It was a bid at independence, and one that he seized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw uni is kicking your ass but you're somehow still motivated to write. it's the best feeling, tbh.
> 
> comments are appreciated, as always. xx
> 
> (and don't worry, the two meet again in the next one.)


	4. the picking

His earlier reservations about his lack of ammunition ended up being unneeded, considering his metal arm had been more than enough to dispose of the fifteen men holed up in the safe house without even having to use a single bullet. He’d taken care of the vermin in the space of five minutes, bodies littered around him without so much as the whisper of breath left in their lungs. It would have been morbidly humorous, perhaps, him standing awkwardly in the middle of the room like that, if not for the fact that he’d decided before barging in that he would leave at least one alive for questioning. He had to figure out where the others had gone so he could do the same to them, after all, for he was nothing if not exacting in his vengeance.

Now that he was standing in the middle of the room, heart thudding in his ears and painful breath caught in his chest at the death and destruction he’d caused in so little a time, however, he finally understood what had gone wrong: his usual mission parameters had kicked in, and he’d acted in line with those rules.

HYDRA very rarely, if at all, took prisoners when they chose to utilise his skill set, and as such, he’d gone and performed as usual, not even questioning the swiftness with which he’d wrung the life out of these agents’ bodies until the dust had settled and he was left in the quiet after the storm, alone.

_Goddamnit._

It was worrying how easy it was to lose himself, to become once more the weapon he’d been groomed to be. Frightening, how quick it was to slip into the mechanical motions of the Asset without a handler giving him a mission to complete. It was a reminder that even now, he was still attached to the organisation who’d destroyed his mind, dancing to the invisible strings still tied to his limbs and playing out the role and of the soldier despite the fact that he’d freed himself from their control.

But was he really free of them if he’d gone back to his old habits so swiftly? These were the routines that had been ingrained into him by force, time and again, and the repetition of which would be a struggle to break out of, if he even had the capability do that. If the changes made to him weren’t irrevocable, anyway -- which was seeming more and more to be impossible, at this point. They’d taken away the parts that had made him the so-called Bucky Barnes, left him a shell of a man in order to build him up to the image of their liking. There was no going back from that, was there?

Even if it wasn’t his choice.

Even if it was forced down his throat that he’d choked with the wrongness of it in his body for 70 long years.

His head hurt. It might very well have been from the well-placed hit to the temple that he’d received from one of the agents he’d fought with -- now strewn lifeless over the shattered glass of the coffee table -- but some part of him understood that it was more than just a physical ache. The pressure building in his skull gave rise to movement on his part, in any case, jostling him out of his circular thoughts that seemed never-ending. Now that interrogation was out of the question, the only thing left to do was to find whatever valuable items HYDRA kept in this particular hideaway and torch the rest.

Flame seemed final, he thought. There was no going back when everything had turned to ashes, and every one that aligned themselves with this cause would find that out soon enough. How ironic would it be, really, for the hand of HYDRA to deal the striking blow that would wipe its existence out of the planet?

Shattered glass crunched under his boot, the only sound that accompanied the whisper-like hum of the desktop computer in the corner of the room. He headed straight for it, clicking on icons and skimming through information he could. Nothing informative was available to read, everything with passwords that he had nothing to crack with. That didn’t mean he didn’t try, heavy fingers typing on the keyboard. They were steady at first, growing in pressure with each key press until he’d banged his fist and broken it in half in frustration.

He’d needed at least one of them alive to get information, and he didn’t even manage to do that right.

One of the goons’ ID lay a few ways from a limp hand, and he snatched it up, flesh hand gripping it in his palm, still angry at everything and anything. He rounded the corner, happening upon a locked door with a card reader -- as was standard for the safe house armory -- and slid the ID through, bolts unlocking as a result.

It was the space of a tiny broom closet, but still full to the brim with guns, considering none of them had had enough time to grab a weapon to defend themselves aside from the handguns they had on their person when he’d swept in like a thief in the night.

Then again, that was what he was tonight. A thief. No mincing words.

Leaving that room for later, he walked the hallway, knocking down doors along the way with his heavy boot, before moving on at the confirmation that there was nothing valuable to grab in the room. Overhead, the lights blinked and sparked, casting him in shadow and light in equal measure as he kicked down yet another door.

_There._

Frustrated at how the evening had gone, he didn’t waste any time trying to crack the safe, his fist leaving a sizeable hole in the thick metal instead. What he found inside made his annoyance dissipate, however, an innocuous black suitcase and the thick folder it sat upon quickly seized once he’d identified its contents.

Finally, a good break on this godforsaken night.

* * *

_Prices really have risen since the 1940s._

The thought popped up in his head, unbidden and far too conversational, and he paused from taking his groceries out from the paper bag, surprised at himself. Where had that come from? Little observations like that rarely came, his mind either quiet like a still lake or drowning in everything he could think of, all at once, guilt and fear and desperation lumped together until he just couldn’t breathe anymore. But this was different.

Not heavy. Nor was it wrong, per se -- the place that he’d managed to rent wasn’t anything to be proud about, far too constricted for a man his size and dilapidated, to boot, with peeling wallpaper and ratty furniture placed upon the creaking floorboards. He had to take what he could get, however, and considering the fact that the landlord had agreed to keep him off the books and there were at least ten possible exits he could utilise should things go south, well.

There was little to complain about.

In any case, he wasn’t under any impression that his stroke of luck would continue any further after finding that suitcase. It had been filled with wads of hard cash, dinars and francs alike, and the overall sum of it meant that he would be set for months, even with the inflation. And while the file he’d grabbed didn’t contain overly implicating information, names and details blacked out in the documents, he did have some remembrance now of where to find the other safe houses, considering the coded directions in some of the pages.

It was funny how the emergency protocols they had in place ended up benefiting him -- and, he supposed, it was one thing to thank HYDRA for.

That made him snort. Sure. He’d thank them by destroying everything he could get his hands on.

The cheap fabric of his new clothes scratched at his skin, sleeves riding up just the slightest to reveal metal and flesh, as he moved to finish unloading the rest of his groceries into the refrigerator. The paper bags jostled the days-old newspaper which it had been set upon, wrinkling the pages it had been opened to.

Its printed headline still blared out for him to see, a reminder of his capability:

 _BASEMENT FIRE KILLS FIFTEEN_.

* * *

The night straddled its midpoint, but the city still hummed with activity around him. His feet found themselves walking towards the hall -- it was a different path each day, his reluctance of making this into routine at the forefront of his mind. And yet he was here once more, standing at the bottom of the steps to the entrance, a week after he’d seen her last.

There was a reason for it that he couldn’t contest, he rationalised, for already, his image of her was fading, warped by both time and whatever they’d done to his brain, and it made him restless, unsure. For yes, he could remember, somewhat, the shape of her frame from afar, her height, the brisk stride she’d assumed on her way home. But her face lost detail. The only thing he could hold onto now was the curve of her smile, the rose pink of her lips which had caught him so off-guard. He’d thought, before, that his compromised memories were only of his past as Bucky Barnes, but now there was a terror he refused to give name to at the thought of his brainwashing affecting his recall in the present.

Because if it did, didn’t that mean that he would never be able to become more than what they’d made him to be?

_Soldier._

_Asset._

_Weapon._

_Thing._

“Hey!”

The voice made his head whip up, alarm bells ringing, only subsiding somewhat when he saw that it was her, the light from inside the hall casting her outline in an almost hazy glow. He could hear the door close heavy behind her, and she went down the steps with swift feet, stopping beside him with wide, surprised eyes that held a note of amazement.

_Her eyes are brown, with lighter flecks. Big, too. They wrinkle at the corners. Don’t forget._

“You came back!”

_She remembered?_

“Kind of lost hope that you would, for a while there. Why didn’t you come in earlier and grab something for dinner?” Her hand loosely grasped the long, weathered strap of her bag, and he could see painted peach nails reflecting off of the streetlights with each shift of her arm.

“Wasn’t hungry.” His own voice surprised him, low and gravelly. He hadn’t been planning to talk at all -- much less be seen, but he’d been so stuck in thought that she’d found him, anyway. Besides, she’d asked him a question that his mouth formed the answer to before he could think better of it, and so here they were.

His response must’ve thrown her off, too, but the only indication of that were her eyebrows rising just the slightest. Otherwise, her lips remained pursed as she looked him over, head tilting to the side as if it would help in her sizing him up.

It felt strange, to be looked at in this way. He couldn’t feel any malice in her gaze, not like when his handlers would check him for injuries or anything that would affect his performance negatively. No, it was merely curious, taking in details that she had not had the time to distinguish the week before when they’d conversed in the almost shadows.

The dark cap remained on his head, of course, his brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail underneath it. He didn’t think he looked much different from the last time they’d met that she would be taking her time to take it in. He smelled better, definitely, but that was just from having easy access to a working shower and new, unsoiled clothes. Still, it seemed as though she’d found something she liked, if the side of her mouth ticking upwards was any indication.

“You look good, you know,” she finally said, the curve of her lips growing by the second. A car whizzed past them, the loud rumble of its engine making her pause, her long hair shifting in the wind. Flowers, again, the scent carried by the wind to him. “You looked so tired, before. I’m glad that you’re getting back on your feet.”

“Why?” Yet another reply that just pushed itself out of his errant mouth, almost rude-sounding. “Why are you glad?” He would take it back, shake his head and leave, but he still wanted to know why it would make her glad to see him now, so he let it hang between them instead. Her brow furrowed for a moment, nose wrinkling as she shrugged her shoulders, unbothered, once more, by his roughness.

“Well -- why wouldn’t I be? A week ago you’d looked like you’d been hit by a freight train or something and lived to tell the tale, but now you look like you’ve actually gotten some sleep in you. Things are bound to go up from there, I think. I guess it’s just nice to see people succeed, you know?”

It was his turn to squint at her, reaction automatic. And perhaps the disbelief was clear on his face, because she shook her head, teeth catching on her bottom lip for a moment before her smile broke through and her face lit up.

“Was that too much? Sorry. Max always tells me I’m too positive, whatever that means. Makes retching noises, too, when I go overboard with what she calls ‘the sweet,” she said, her hand coming up to tuck errant strands behind her ear, jostled by the wind. His gaze tracked her movement, halting at the sight of a deep dip on her cheek, another detail to hold onto, another thing to etch into his memory, and his brain supplied an image, out of the blue --

Another woman’s face, features blurred in motion. Short, brown hair curled and set, an excited smile giving way to the shadow of a dimple as her small hand clasped his left one tight, skin warm from contact, and she pulled him along the crowd, giggles reaching his ears.

 

_‘Oh my god, it’s starting!’_

 

“Hey, you okay?”

He blinked, and suddenly, he was back to the present, standing in front of this strange woman instead of a … fair? No. It was an expo, in 1943. Something about technology. He’d brought her there before he’d shipped off ...

_Connie._

He’d remembered Connie.

“You went away from me there, for a second. I asked you what your name was, but if … um, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay, too. I just didn’t want to call you something stupid and probably offensive in my head if I saw you again, like, uh … wait, you don’t need an example, actually. Nevermind that,” she said, sheepish, hand coming up to her hair again, fingers fussing with the ends.

His name. She was asking for his name, with fidgety hands and earnest, big brown eyes searching, and he didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t very well tell her to call him the way he’d been called all those years ago -- somehow he understood, at the very least, how strange it would be to say his name was _Asset_. How disconnected and impersonal it was, how inhumane.

In his head he never called himself by any name. It was always _I_ , or _Soldier._   _Failure._  Names were for people, he thought, and he was only just beginning to understand that perhaps he could be that, again. Maybe someday.

He couldn’t tell her to call him Bucky, either. Somehow, it didn’t feel right. It was like putting a square peg in a round hole. He doubted he could ever become him again, and masquerading as the man he used to be when he knew there was no going back felt like a farce he hadn’t the strength to even start. Steve Rogers would call him Bucky regardless, he knew, as though nothing had happened, and they were still best friends, but was that really true, still?

There still remained the option of holding his tongue, of course, and walking away from this woman for good. He’d ensured she was clean, that she was real. He didn’t need to be known to her -- she would be a loose end, a liability if things went south.

But he couldn’t help but think:

Would it be a crime, to want to be remembered by someone?

“I…” he started, voice low. Still undecided, still taking his time. His fists clenched, a slight whirring noise activating that was masked by the activity of the street around them. The woman let him think, teeth worrying at her bottom lip at her own concern that she’d offended him, somehow, but that wasn’t the case.

She was uninvolved, if a bit nosy, and there was no hostility in her manner. Low threat level, if at all. He could kill her, if he had to, her soft neck easily snapping under his hand if the situation called for it. He’d done worse, too many times to count.

But was it okay to want this? To have someone outside of HYDRA, aside from Steve and his friends, know that he existed?

It felt selfish, like just thinking of it for himself was against every protocol he’d been forced to follow. It had always been a priority to keep himself hidden, to execute missions without exposing himself so that his usability was not compromised for covert ops, that actively going against it now made him fearful of the consequences. It felt as though if he blinked he would be back in the chair, clamps squeezing his temples and gag in his mouth just for the mere thought of wanting something for himself.

His fists shook in remembrance, and he must’ve looked different. Terrifying, perhaps? He wouldn’t be surprised. There was a growing pain in his temples that made his brows knit together, and he must’ve looked angry. She didn’t even take a step back, however, but her hands went up, as if to remind him to calm.

“Listen, you _really_ don’t have to tell me anything. Just call me Ada, okay? I mean, you can call me Adelaide, too, since that’s what it’s short for, but … um. Yeah. Your decision.” She was babbling, she knew, but he’d looked so -- lost and confused, like a puppy kicked out of home, before his face turned sour, and she didn’t want to force him to tell her if he didn’t want to.

_Adelaide._

_Ada._

His lips formed the syllables, mouth moving silently and testing the way it felt. There was still a pain in his head, but his hands no longer shook, brows unfurrowed. Distracted, it seemed to be, by this new information she’d offered, soothing voice working wonders for the painful memory he'd dredged up.

“James.”

That made her jump, lashes fluttering as she blinked at him. She didn't think he'd actually say anything, anymore.

He couldn’t be Bucky, not now. There were few to little traces of that man left in him, only brought to light by the oddest details that dragged him back into the past. He didn’t want to be the Asset anymore, either, for that time, he hoped desperately, was behind him. But that one name … it felt neutral. Like something he could claim and make his own, in the now, no connections, no pain, no nothing.

He could make it his, if he wanted.

And he did.

“My name is James,” he repeated, more for himself. Testing out that name, too, on his tongue, as unfamiliar to him as hers was. Listening to how it sounded like, in his own low tones.

The smile Ada gave him could light up an entire city, he thought, and how strange would that be? She held her hand out for him to shake, and despite her earlier fidgeting there seemed to be no trace of discomfort in her frame, only the warmth that she seemed to emanate without so much as a warning.

“Well, then. I’m very pleased to meet you, James.”

It was odd how he did not hesitate, this time, right hand coming up to clasp hers. Her palm was soft and smooth against his calloused skin, tiny in comparison to his, but her grip was firm and sure. It was as though he weren’t some intimidating stranger that she feared, but a new acquaintance she was happy to make.

Somehow, that didn’t feel far from the truth.

Ada let his hand go, connection severed too soon, but a glance at her wristwatch told her it was time to go, or else she’d be running late again. “Listen, I’d actually really love to stay and talk for a while, but I gotta go. Work calls, and there’s this deadline I’m kind of behind on, and -- uh, well. You know what I mean.”

He didn’t, not really, but she was rambling and he felt he didn’t need to interrupt, still stuck in his realisation that he’d taken a name for himself, still stuck on the feeling of her hand in his, human contact for the sake of human contact a concept he’d forgotten existed.

“Anyway, yeah. I’ll see you around, yeah? Don’t be a stranger. Seriously.” There was a hint of warning in her voice, but it was unlike the orders he used to hear. This was spoken in jest, he understood, and his inclination to satisfy stemmed from his own desire, and not so much the fact that he felt obligated to comply.

James nodded, once, twice. Pleased at his affirmation, Ada grinned as she stepped around him, footsteps steady on the sidewalk as she made her way home. He turned to see her go, much like he’d done so last week, when she’d left him at the bottom of the steps. That first time she’d talked to him had left him confused, doubtful -- but tonight, tonight he felt like he’d accomplished something, like he’d taken a step away from the grasping hands of his dark past, and moved forward into the light.

He didn’t think that calling himself James would make him feel so … powerful. Heady with the thought of it, even. But it did, and, he supposed, that was her doing. Had Ada not asked, he would not have thought of it himself, so soon after escaping, when all he could think of was to survive. But she did, was the thing. She’d asked, and she’d treated him like he was a person, gone about the usual way of introductions and small talk and made him feel like he was human, again.

Somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was supposed to have finished this up yesterday night but i ended up downing a bottle of wine instead, oops. any errors are a result of me smashing most of this chapter out in a few hours.
> 
> also, i just had to put in a connie mention. jenna coleman owns my soul and she can step on me and i'd thank her for it. ... not that she would, but you understand.
> 
> i've also made a graphic of sorts for this fic while i was playing around on photoshop, just so people can visualise ada and how she looks like better, but i'm on the fence about putting it in the prelude chapter. you can find it here: ( http://imgur.com/a/xNwpP ) i'd appreciate your thoughts.
> 
> anyway. comments would be lovely, and would be effective fuel for the next chapter, wink wonk. xx


	5. something old, something new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so after taking an unannounced year(and then some)-long hiatus, i'm back! i apologise for taking a while, lots of things happened irl- one of which was me finally graduating from uni, which really took a lot out of me and so i had to put this fic on the (very) backburner. but after watching infinity war i remembered i needed to pick this up again, so here we are -- i make no promises to post frequent & regular updates, just to avoid disappointing people, but i do have a general plan of how i want the plot of this to go, so i'll try and keep it monthly as much as possible.

Somehow, two years after his awakening, the differences between the forties and modern-day America still managed to surprise Steve Rogers. It was one thing to plunge into the ice to his death, and another to open his eyes to see all the advancements, all the time that had passed while he’d been frozen. The future is now, it seemed, and in it man had made some impressive progress.

Still, some things remained the same, especially when it came to tracking people who didn’t want to be found.

“Any word on Natasha?” It was running him ragged, this continuous search that seemed fruitless, and the frustration was apparent in his tone. If they just had her aid, perhaps this would be quick work, but …

“Nope. She did say she needed to lay low for a while,” Sam Wilson was just as tired, hand coming up to rub at his face before he resumed his work on the laptop before him. “Give her time. She might pull through.” 

“I don’t like this. He could be anywhere by now. Nothing’s going to happen if we wait for intel to come to us.”

“I’m not contesting that, Cap, but where are you going to look now? We lost him in Virginia, and every other lead after that turned into a dead end.” Ever the voice of reason, Sam was calm in the face of Steve’s pent-up frustration, his words taking a more measured tone.

This was a conversation they’d already had before, after all, and the Captain was letting his emotions get the best of him.

Sam leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms, a long-suffering sigh only just held in. It made sense, to him, the desperation that he could feel coming off of Steve in waves. If he’d had the chance to see Riley again, perhaps he would have been in the same state. “Look, you know I’ve got people who’ll keep an eye out. If he tries to leave the country, we’ll know and we’ll catch him before he can. Otherwise --”

“He’d find another way out. I know it. This is Bucky we’re talking about here. If we wait for him to get tagged at an airport, we’ll be waiting on nothing. There has to be some other way.” Steve was nothing if not stubborn, and he knew that he was right.

“SHIELD is gone, Cap, and we don’t have the resources you’re looking for. Plus ––”

“There has to be something better. We can _do_ something better,” Steve said simply, grabbing his leather jacket and his keys. He needed to burn this anxious energy away, and perhaps it was better to leave Sam to his own devices. After all, the man was only helping him, and arguing wouldn’t do them any good. It was just that the Captain needed something _to do._ “I’ll check out town again, ask around if someone remembers seeing him. I’ll see you later.”

Sam could only look on as he left, head shaking but letting him go. The door closed behind Steve with a click, and moments after, the telltale rumble of his motorcycle grew further and further away.

* * *

 The stars were a bit hard to see in New York’s night sky, smog and bright city lights masking the otherwise glittering tapestry she could’ve been privy to. Still, there was so much to see on the ground that Ada found she didn’t mind so much as she used to. Passing by flashy and colourful shops and having the smell of fresh cooked food waft out of restaurants on her way home ensured there was always something to keep her occupied, to look and delight at.

Still, her walk ended far too quickly, and she’d arrived at her apartment without much event. With her shoes slipped off and her hair tied into a haphazard bun, Ada wasted no time tackling her workload. Or, at least, she tried to, her mind deeming fit to occupy itself with other things as she read through the documents. Instead, she thought back to the man she’d conversed with outside of the hall, finger stilling on the trackpad in distraction.

She wasn’t lying when she’d said he looked good. Not just in the physical sense of the term, because while yes, he did look like he’d had muscles underneath his many, many layers of clothes -- and how strange was that? It was the spring merging into summer and yet it looked like he was dressing for winter -- and his admittedly handsome face had been obscured slightly by his cap, there was a difference in the energy that she felt from him when she saw him last and the energy that she’d felt when she’d seen him tonight.

When before, he had been more like a cornered animal than anything else, ready to take flight at the slightest sign of trouble, his stance had changed just the slightest when she’d stumbled upon him on her way out. His shoulders were still tense, yes, but he’d actually spoken to her this time around, made eye contact. It was, perhaps, the only reason why she even caught more than a fleeting glimpse of his face.

Ada couldn’t have helped the relief that came when she’d seen him. His absence had worried her, and when he’d failed to show up to take some food, she’d jumped straight to the worst conclusion that could possibly have happened -- that he was dead in a ditch, somewhere, or severely injured, or something life-threatening that could’ve prevented him from coming back.

In a way, it was a roundabout manner of thinking. She’d outright refused to think that it was because she’d spooked him away, if only because it would just have made her feel a thousand times worse to think that it was her fault. And, well. Ada had enough pride in herself to think that an admission like that, even to herself, would bruise her ego even just a little bit.

So when she’d realised it was him at the steps, the weight had lifted off her shoulders and she’d called out to him without even thinking about it. That she’d managed to hold a conversation with him, no matter how fleeting, was unexpected, too -- she’d tried her hardest not to look too surprised, or comment on his sudden willingness to participate in the conversation, but she knew that she’d reacted, anyway, face an open book.

She really needed to work on that.

For a moment, Ada thought that she was doing well, keeping him engaged -- but the mere asking of his name had brought about a pregnant silence that warned her that it was, perhaps, overstepping on her account to know him as more than _Handsome Hobo Man_.

His face had looked strained, his wide blue eyes troubled. Like it was difficult to answer, like he didn’t know what he could say. Which was strange, because everyone knew their name, at the very least. It was something you were born with, or you choose, or something along those lines. But everyone had a name, and for a split second she’d thought his alarm was because he didn’t have one, a second short-lived because he’d finally responded.

_James_ , he’d said, voice gruff, almost dying out at the end of it. And, perhaps, he’d realised it was too quiet to hear so he repeated himself, stronger and louder. So now she had the name to the face, and it felt so much like a breakthrough that she found herself smiling now, again, teeth catching on her lip.

It was always good, to make a new connection. To perhaps lay the foundation of what would be the basis of a friendly acquaintance, at the very least. New York was crowded and loud and busy, but loneliness was oftentimes just a whisper away -- at least for her, it was. And maybe she was projecting, but she saw a little bit of that in James’ eyes, too. Different in reasoning, perhaps, even miles and miles from it, but still, just as important to note.

Hopefully, she would see him again. It would be nice to be able to relate to someone, to see a familiar face, even if he didn’t want to talk too deeply. At least she’d be able to make sure he was fed, too, when he came back. If he did, anyway.

Her phone buzzed beside her, snapping her out of her thoughts -- and she jolted with a start at the remembrance that she had a very real deadline, and that it perhaps was not the proper time to daydream about James.

Not that _that_ was what she had been doing.

* * *

 It became somewhat of a routine.

Now that he’d had enough information from the documents he’d found in the first safe house, he’d put himself on the pathway to the first mission he’d made for himself: to destroy the last vestiges of HYDRA and terminate all known associates.

It felt good, to have something to put his mind to. To use his arm for something it was made for. Vengeance, perhaps, was an endeavour suited to lesser men, but they’d made him a lesser man in his own approximation, if he were still a man at all, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Quickly his nights filled up with long drives and bullets, an all-consuming fire in his wake as he sped away. He was good at this, at the very least, though each man he’d interrogated studiously repeating _hail, HYDRA_ at him made it exceedingly difficult to gather new information. Frustrating, maybe, but it gave him more incentive to just set everything ablaze and leave.

It wasn’t just his nightly excursions that became regular, however. To fill his days he found himself seeking out the woman -- _Ada_ \-- watching from afar as she went about her life, flitting through coffee shops with friends or sitting in sunny parks alone or trudging back home, where she seemed to spend most of her time.

She was a good distraction, kept his mind occupied and his body moving. The most that he could do to rationalise this unfathomable pull towards her was to make as though he was still unsure of her nature, that watching her was the only way to confirm that she was a normal civilian uninvolved in anything unsavoury. It worked, for the most part, to give reasonable basis to something he didn’t put much thought into actually doing -- in truth it wasn’t as if he woke from a troubled night’s sleep with the intention to follow her around. But in observing her he found his mind busy enough not to pull up painful memories from out of left field -- and it was a welcome respite, considering he would wake up from nightmares of the chair more often than not, exhausted and unable to give his mind ample rest.

Instead of recollections bombarding him, he tried to memorise her routines, haphazard and irregular as they were. It was fascinating, in a way, seeing her live a life so different from his own, and he found it harder and harder to keep away.

It was on the fifth day that the distance was breached -- though it was unintentional, for the most part, him having ducked out to get groceries, as mundane an activity as can be. He hadn’t known she would be there. If he did, he would’ve gone somewhere else, evaded contact. That she’d stumbled upon him puzzling over which fruit to get was, perhaps, a stroke of luck, but that was debatable, if only for the fact that he was stuck in his own head, pulled out without warning. She was lucky he didn’t sprint off in alarm -- luckier still that he didn’t engage aggressively.

“James?”

It had taken a few moments to answer -- he still wasn’t used to responding to the name, including the fact that someone else knew it. Bucky was easier to recall, knee-jerk reaction ingrained in him somehow, but had he been called that in this store he would’ve run without so much as a glance behind him, where he knew for certain there would be a blonde man chasing after. This was different, at the very least, Ada’s inquisitive and mellow tone colouring the word, melting away some of his apprehension the longer she stood in his sights.

He’d still almost crushed the apple in his gloved hand, though. Only barely stopped himself in time.

“Hey, it _is_ you! Didn’t know you shopped here, too.” She moved into his line of vision and there it was, again, a dimple forming on her cheek as she smiled so easily at him, and it was surprisingly difficult to look away. He put down the apple, trying to figure out what best to respond to that with, but only coming up with: 

“Hello, Ada.”

It seemed like a good, normal response, if the wrinkling around Ada’s eyes was any indication. He couldn’t help but take her in. Her long hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, ends curling on shoulders covered by a pastel yellow cardigan on top of a white shirt. Her skirt ended just above the knee, denim hugging her form -- standard errand attire, as he’d come to know during his daily observation of her.

“Hiya. How’ve you been?”

“... Good.” That felt lacking -- like he’d missed something, awkward conversationalist that he was. It wasn’t as though people had talked to him, before, for the sake of talking, in any case. And while that seemed like a good enough reason to excuse himself from attempting to engage with her, he found himself wanting to hear Ada talk more, found himself wanting to see the way her lips formed around warmly-intoned words. So it would not suffice. And yet even with that desire, it still took him longer than it should’ve to remember that it would be best to return the question, tongue stumbling. “.... you?”

She didn’t even miss a beat, strange pause in between seemingly nonexistent. “Pretty good, actually. I somehow got all my work done early for this week, so now it’s weird -- I’m not used to being caught up, you know? Usually it’s always me chasing after deadlines, which really isn’t the best way to do things.”

He nodded. In his days of tracking Ada she’d always seemed hurried, rushing from one place to the next. Today, though, she seemed calm, like she was where she’d needed to be when she needed to be there, and not a moment before, or after. He was curious about her mysterious job, however -- and before he’d thought better of it, had asked: “What do you do … exactly?”

“Well, I … hm,” she looked like she wasn’t expecting the question, let alone the sincerity in its asking, but the look faded immediately. He ducked his head, unwilling to make eye contact just in case she was planning on refusing to answer. It was in her full right to, but the idea stung, for some reason. “The boring, long version of it is that I’m a freelance lexicographer slash publishing copy-editor for some, um. Big companies. But that just basically means I edit dictionaries and fact check and rewrite publications, so … uh. Yeah. I like it well enough.”

Her explanation was appreciated  -- heaven knew if she’d just told him the short version, he would’ve been stumped, and now that he knew this about her, he felt like he understood her a little more than before.

Not that he understood much, really. Ada still felt miles and miles away from him, mysterious and bright and too human, but hoarding this information about her made him feel less alone, took him out of his head. He’d already established he was selfish in coming to see her again and again, in any case, and it felt a little better that this meeting he hadn’t expected to even occur, that it hadn’t risen from his following her around like a shadow. That she willingly gave him information about herself both confused and gave him some form of pleasure, and that … was something he didn’t want to think about at the moment.

Instead, he looked up at Ada to see her teeth biting down on her pink bottom lip, seemingly unsettled.

Had he done that to her? It was the first time he’d ever seen her look ruffled, and it was disconcerting. It looked like she was trying to decide on something, and in a flash a million scenarios flitted through his mind, all horrible and wrong.

She shifted her heavy-looking basket to her other hand, body leaning to the left from the weight of it, before finally settling on what she wanted to say.

“Listen, James. About last time. When I asked you for your name?” There it was. He stiffened, face blank as he waited for her to continue, but the gears in his head were turning.

_Does she know who I am? Am I compromised?_

“I’m sorry if I bothered you. You looked really … um, how should I say this … caught off-guard when I asked, and I just wanted to apologise if that wasn’t something you wanted to share with me and you felt pushed to. My brain to mouth filter’s pretty bad and I was honestly just really happy that you’d came back, so I kind of got carried away. Sorry about that.”

He blinked. It was almost funny, in a way, how different his expectation was to what really was the problem -- and before he could help it, the corner of his lip quirked up in semblance of a smile -- one that certainly did not go unnoticed by Ada, who’d blinked right back at him in surprise, before his lips turned into a line once more. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to react in this way, too.

He didn’t think he even remembered how to smile, in all honesty, but she’d pulled the beginnings of it out of him just ... like that. How was that possible? 

“I… ” he started, and the expectation in her eyes was so palpable that he carried on. “I wasn’t … pushed.” His grip tightened on his own basket, and he looked away from her, reluctant yet also somehow willing to share this weakness to this stranger-turned- _something else_. She wouldn’t hurt him. She wouldn’t. “I just … have a hard time remembering things. That’s why.”

A pause. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. It was the truth, but.

“You know, I read somewhere that plums help with memory problems,” Ada gestured to some just a few feet away, a funny look on her face. His head swivelled to follow the direction she was pointing at, and he made a mental note to grab a few later on, before looking back at her. She was squinting, as if she were the one with issues with recall -- “Then again, I think they also make you poop a lot. Or maybe that’s just prunes. Either way, just don’t overdo it, I guess?”

The smile was back, the chuckle under her breath making her nose wrinkle. He found himself slowly returning it, again, finding the humour in her words enough for his lips to curve slightly once more. She could’ve reacted in any other way, looked at him with distaste, honing in on his _honesty_ that hid a darker, more sinister thing. But she didn’t. She’d taken it in stride, smooth as can be, swaying him with her own jovial mood. And though laughing, he thought, was perhaps a long way away, if it were possible at this point, even, but this? This split-second reaction had been easy. Genuine.

Ada’s eyes were soft, chocolate brown irises warm and trained on his face. It didn’t feel calculating, like his handlers used to be like -- just. It felt like she was trying to see him, this man who kept popping up near her, with nothing but eager curiosity, and with each turn he somehow didn’t disappoint. Her cheeks slowly tinged light pink, but before he could think on why, she shook her head as if to shake herself out of it, hair swaying with the movement as she took a minute step back.

“Oh. Uh … anyway, I’ll, uh -- I’ll stop bothering you now and leave you to your shopping.” A bit of a stumble, there, tongue twisting in her mouth uncomfortably. Her hand comes up to tuck stray hair behind her ear, almost antsy.

Was she nervous? Where had that come from? 

“...okay.” It was unfamiliar, this drop in his gut, and it only came about at her prompting for goodbye. He didn’t understand what it meant, and he would puzzle it in his head later on, no doubt in that. But for now, it was all he could do to watch her, and they stood there, for a few seconds, both seemingly unwilling to actually leave.

“Well, uh. Okay. Yeah. It was really nice to see you, James,” she gives him another smile -- though this is notably subdued. Distracted. Ada turns before he can say anything back, not that he would’ve, in any case, head buzzing with questions at her behaviour. It wasn’t so much suspicion that arose in him. He’d already checked her story, had been satisfied that she was just a civilian, perhaps one too friendly for her own good. But right then, she’d looked akin to a spooked animal, like she’d finally realised what a threat he was that she needed to run to safety. And as much as he didn’t want to think about it, the thought stung, a bitter poison slowly seeping its way into the brief tranquility she’d provided him unknowingly with this small encounter.

A thing like him never really deserved more than a moment’s peace, he supposed.

Still, he watches her as she makes her way to the counter, the back of her neck flushed pink as she rushes through the transaction, mumbling through small talk. Ada only turns to find him still looking at her just before she steps out the doors of the grocer, and there it is, still -- a warmth to her cheeks that won’t fade. She gives him a small wave, before rushing out and disappearing into the street.

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks like someone's got a bit of a crush. 
> 
> poor bucky, he's too up in his head sometimes (read: all the time). but can you blame him?
> 
> and as always, comments are appreciated.


End file.
